


Altar of Rain

by Ammeh



Series: Altar of Thunder [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Feelings, God!Dimitri using the weather like a remote controlled vibrator, Guilt, Long-Distance Relationship, Power Imbalance, Rain Sex, Tentacle Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29591484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ammeh/pseuds/Ammeh
Summary: Priestess Byleth and storm god Dimitri strain the confines of the god-worshipper relationship as they both try not to overstep for very different reasons.Fortunately, they’re both really bad at it.(AKA, Byleth gets railed by the weather.)
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Series: Altar of Thunder [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2173899
Comments: 47
Kudos: 211





	Altar of Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Altar of Thunder](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27626410)! I'd recommend reading that one first, but if you're in a rush: priestess Byleth excitedly-but-guiltily tied herself to a rock to fill in for a missing sexy sacrifice, came out blessed, and isn't sure why. (It's because Dimitri likes her.)
> 
> This was written for an art trade with [Hikaru_No_Hana](https://twitter.com/Hikaru_No_Hana) for a scene from the first fic--art will be linked when it's ready, but in the meantime you can check out her concept of Storm God Dimitri [here](https://twitter.com/Hikaru_No_Hana/status/1329913098652758018)!

They treat her differently now.

The other priests defer to her, seek her advice on how to best please their lord. Superiors who’ve served him since before her birth, who taught her so much of what she knows, now come to her with questions. She’s asked to verify the turns of phrase they use to spin his visage, or to give approval on decisions she didn’t used to be privy to. 

If she were merely being seen as an authority, it would be one thing, but there’s something more there. Something that makes her feel separate, _other_.

The pilgrims look at her in undue reverence, touch the hem of her robe for blessings she can’t give them. Some of them press offerings into her hands—small things, but things that they should be leaving for her lord. They think she’s lucky. A divine instrument. They think she’s a proxy for her lord’s favor.

She told this to Dimitri and he just sounded... _pleased_. Like he’s happy with the thought of her getting undeserved worship, worship that should be his. She doesn’t understand.

The temple was once her place of comfort, the place where she felt closest to him, but now she feels a strange distance. The central statue that once filled her with awe now seems flat, a pale imitation. The chest smooth and unscarred, the shoulders too narrow, the stone whorls of hair all wrong. 

Between that and the pilgrims, Byleth’s been avoiding serving in the temple when she can. Instead she’s volunteered to wander the paths up and down the mountain, keeping the trails clean and tending the ritual sites used for special holidays—like the equinox, or the first snowfall, or the day of Ascension. 

She’s not sure how she ever concluded she could feel him most keenly in the temple. Out here, rather than genuflect to paltry manmade images of her lord, she can _experience him_. How he lets the sun shine bright on her face one day and draws clouds over it the next, how his fog gathers in valleys and wraps around her like a mantle, how his rain catches on the leaves and sparkles in the morning sun.

It’s not as if she used to pass all her time indoors—but spending hours on end roaming the mountainside, watching the subtle changes from one day to the next, has let her experience her lord on a deeper level than she’d ever dreamed.

Except for. Well.

She still remembers the feel of him inside her, the feel of his hands on her skin. The marks on her tits have faded, but every time his wind blows her hair across her face she remembers how he touched her, filled her, _claimed her_.

And marked her.

Admittedly, she’s still not sure what she’s god-marked _for._ He hasn’t given her an answer yet, and she has yet to broach the subject. Part of her fears that she’s already supposed to know, to be doing it. She’s read every tale she could of past god-marked, both famous and obscure, but she’s still at a loss. From Wilhelm and Loog to the unnamed sculptor who carved the tragedy of Sothis into the walls of the World Temple, every god-marked in history has received a mission alongside the blessing. Some succeeded, some died in the attempt, and some—in the most frightening tales—were punished for their neglect.

None of these tales paint a path she can see herself in. She’s no great artist or military leader. Her words don’t stir men’s spirits into the service of her lord, as she’s recently learned with humiliating certainty. What can she do for him? 

Yesterday, she’d briefly found herself considering praying to the Oathmaker for clarity on the terms of her mission, and that’s probably a sign she needs to swallow her pride and ask. It’s not some mortal contract, it’s a sacred mandate. The god best suited to clarify the terms is the one who bestowed it.

She can consider it on her route.

Today she has a hand broom tied to her belt and a bucket in hand as she makes her way up to clean the Basin of First Rain. It’s one of the better-known shrines for what it represents, even if it’s only used once a year. The trail, however, is narrow, foliage pressing in on both sides that she’ll need to come cut away in a week or two. 

It leads up to a small clearing dominated by a flat, waist-high basin, big enough to fit a grown man lying down. The carvings in the tall stone base tell stories of drought and salvation, of parched fields quenched by her lord’s mercy. 

At the first rainfall after the spring planting, they gather here, drink handfuls of the rain collected in the basin and dance and sing to thank their lord for his blessings. There’s only room enough in the clearing for the priests to gather, so most of the celebration doesn’t take place here but down in the village, where a pitcherful of the collected rain is mixed with the gooseberry wine made in casks at the temple and shared. It’s a rowdy festival, and often a vulgar one. 

But up here in this clearing, things are quiet, peaceful. The bottom of the basin is mirrored, to reflect the sky above, and she can watch the clouds passing overhead as she sweeps the surface clean of debris. 

Even after a month, it’s still startling to see her own reflection.

_Do you dislike it?_

She jolts at Dimitri’s voice in her head, regal and even, speaking as the Lord of Weather today.

“No,” she quickly denies, aghast at the very thought. How could she not want to wear his mark? “I’ll bear your blessing gladly.” It’s a tie she can keep, something she can hold onto as she watches others take the honor that for one glorious night was hers. _She got to see him. She was marked._

 _Good_. He sounds almost relieved, but without the benefit of expressions, she can’t always get a read on his tone. If she’s going to bring up her mission, now would be the time.

“Is there...something I should be doing, though?” she asks. “Some task you want me to perform, or…”

 _You’re already performing it,_ he says.

She looks down quizzically at the hand broom in her grip. “You shouldn’t need to conscript a holy agent just to get your altars properly swept. Do I need to talk to the head priest?” 

He laughs in her head now, and it thrills her every time. This one is more of a huff, caught between amused and frustrated. _No, not sweeping. You perform it by…_ ** _being_** _._

There’s that seductive poison again, the idea that she could be _special_ to him. On any greater scale than a passing flicker in the sea of time and faces that stretch before him, since long before her birth.

“But...I always am.” She resumes brushing away the gathered leaves. “I’d like to do something more for you than _be._ ”

 _Do something for me...hm._ He pauses as if in thought _. Do you still have my marks on your tits?_

A bolt of heat spikes through her, as abrupt as the question. 

“No,” she says, lamentful. “The marks faded a few weeks ago.” Even faster than she’d thought they would, likely a side effect of her boon.

 _Take them out,_ he says. _Show me._

Her robe today is a simple one, sleeveless and pinned with a brooch at the shoulder, suited to the late spring air. She unclasps the brooch eagerly, and starts pulling her other arm out of the loosened bodice before she realizes—

“Can you see me?” Normally the gods need the help of the Allseer’s scrying pools to perceive things outside their domain, at least on scales as small as a single mortal.

_More easily, yes. Your body is tied to me now, as your spirit has been tied to me since you entered my service._

Byleth’s not sure whether she hopes he can’t perceive how soaked that statement just made her, or that he can. Face hot, she continues to work on her robe.

“Here,” she says, baring her tits. “All yours.”

_All mine? You make me wish I could manifest in your world at a whim. Looking will have to suffice._

“Pity,” she says, holding up her tits for his perusal—though she has no idea what angle he’s viewing her from, no idea if the concept even applies. 

_Although, I suppose…_

The spring breeze swirls over her skin, following the swell of her breasts. It’s firm enough to push at her skin, yet her hair is undisturbed.

She gasps, excitement curling in her stomach. He’s touching her, with his domain as his hands. 

_You’re right, they’ve completely faded. A pity indeed._

Her nipples harden as the breeze moves over them, tightening in the open air.

_Apologies, I’m distracting you from your duties. Please, continue._

Hopefully she’s not imagining that teasing edge to his voice. 

She sets down her broom and wets a linen cloth in the bucket she’d filled at a nearby stream, determined to polish the mirror to a shine. Her bare tits stare up at her from her reflection, make her swallow as she drags the cloth across the surface of the basin. Her hands itch to grab them, play with her nipples, pick up where the wind left off. She doesn’t listen.

He rewards her.

His breeze washes over her like a caress, diffuse at first, scarcely different from those she felt on her way up here. But as she continues her task, wiping down his altar until it’s polished and gleaming, it narrows, presses into her like a touch. 

She refreshes her cloth. Keeps going.

As she continues, the wind strokes her tits more vigorously, making them sway with the force of it. Smaller breezes play at other parts of her—a stroke on the back of her neck, a light wind winding up her thigh. With each one, the heat between her legs grows more insistent. 

She presses her thighs together, squirming her hips to abet the hunger building inside her. Her underwear is damp enough to feel cool from the air meandering up her leg. But she continues wiping down the basin.

A stray breeze teases at her mouth, like a thumb pressed into her lower lip. _You’re aroused_ , he says. _Touch yourself for me._

Finally.

Throwing her cleaning rag aside, she scrambles to undo the belt of her robe, shoves her underwear down along with it. Her fingers find her clit before they’ve even finished falling to the grass. 

There’s a noise in her mind, like an intake of breath. _You do look lovely like that...but I pictured you on the table._

For a moment, horror overtakes her at the thought. Climb bare-assed onto the Basin of First Rain and masturbate over it? The idea is desecration, blasphemy on a level she can scarcely even fathom. 

But...if it’s Dimitri who wills it, it’s not blasphemy at all. It’s the highest of callings, a direct service to her lord.

Byleth climbs up into the mirrored basin and prostrates herself on all fours, the smooth surface cool against her hands and knees. Holding herself up with one arm, she reaches down and slides her fingers into her swollen folds.

Abstractly, she knows this is holy, but it feels _animal_. The altar stares back up at her with her own face, witnessing her acts, showing her exactly how craven she looks—naked and hungry-eyed, tits jiggling with every shift of her arm as she touches herself. 

Perhaps this would be easier if she closed her eyes and focused on the idea that—

He’s watching her.

Suddenly the depraved view before her is a boon rather than a distraction, a window to what she’s showing him. Body alight at the thought of it, her self-consciousness fades into an ardent desire to perform, to live up to every expectation of what he’d pictured. To exceed them, if she can. She lets her motions grow wilder, privately relishing the jostling of her tits and the slick sound of her hand between her legs.

The breeze rustles her hair, cool on her scalp, brushes over her lips almost like a kiss. It winds down her body, between the hanging valley of her tits, and he’s quiet but she can _feel_ him, feel his presence in her mind as she works herself over. 

A stream of air curls around her thighs and over the curve of her ass. It passes over where her hand is moving frantically between her thighs, making her slick feel cool against her skin, and suddenly she’s sharply aware that her pussy is hanging out in the open, completely exposed. She wonders if he can see it, see the hole where she took him pursed slick and undisturbed and _wanting._

She wants him to. To see it, to desire it, to desire _her_. Even as the thoughts bud she knows they’re the sort that lead to ruin, to the type of arrogant downfall passed on in cautionary tales—but the knowledge isn’t enough to stop her heart from fostering them. She rubs her clit and imagines him watching her, stroking himself, wishing he were inside her cunt. It’s a more indulgent fantasy than she’s ever consciously allowed herself, and she wonders if she should feel guilty.

_What are you thinking of?_

“You,” she confesses. “Always.”

His voice has a spark of thunder in it when he responds. _Is that so._

The wind picks up. It swirls around her, making her breasts swing, rustling the trees around the clearing as it grows wilder, less contained. She wants to press into it like a touch but it’s everywhere, eddying over her entire body, feeling out the shape of it.

She feels so empty, wants to reach back and fill herself with her fingers but she needs a hand to touch her clit and one to hold herself up and that doesn’t leave her any options. Her face in the mirror below her looks debauched, cheeks flushed and mouth hanging open as she chases her peak. In the reflected sky, clouds are gathering overhead.

“And—about whether I’d rather touch or finger myself.” She swallows. “I wish you were in me again.” The truth of it’s out in the open before she can stop herself, the words dropped like a stone into the spring air. She can feel the echo of them on her tongue, wants to swallow them back up and undo them. _Who does she think she is?_

He groans softly, like he had towards the end of that night, when he grew loose-limbed and leisurely, both of them somewhere approaching sated, the stroke of his cock within her gone from a need to an indulgence.

It jolts free a crystal-sharp sense memory of swallowing that groan with her lips—his body pressed hot against hers, his thumb coaxing a last decadent orgasm from her clit. Her cunt clenches on nothing, and a fat drop of slick lands on the mirror with a quiet plop.

Instinctively, she winces. Her acclimation to the idea of masturbating as an act of worship was not yet prepared to handle that. 

_That’s what the basin is for, is it not?_ Beneath the lust, he sounds amused.

“I thought it was for rain,” Byleth pants, resuming the motion of her hand the moment she hears the humor in his tone.

_You mortals leave offerings here, when the rain doesn’t come quickly enough for your liking._

Byleth can’t help it, she laughs. “I didn’t realize that qualified as a worthy offering.”

_Only from you. I’d ask that you not suggest it to your fellows._

There’s that tightness in her chest again, that greedy leap at the idea of being something _more_ to him in some nonsensical way she can’t even define. She’s already a priest at his highest temple, where his voice can be heard. She’s the one he speaks with the most. She’s already seen his face, lain with him, been marked by him. What can _more_ even mean? Does she want to compete for his favor with worshippers long-dead, to know that he favors her above any that came before her? An egotistical notion, but she fears it’s something even more dangerous—that her heart is confused and approaching him as one of equal rank, as someone that could be _hers_.

“My lips are sealed.” On more than one account.

_Good. And since I said it was a worthy offering..._

The clouds above her darken.

The first drops are small, tiny plips breaking up the surface of the mirror, those that fall on her skin quickly whisked away by the wind swirling over her. But they grow faster, heavier—audibly plinking into the basin around her as she touches herself, wetting her skin and hair.

By the time Byleth shudders apart on her fingers, the rain is a heavy drum on her skin, soaking her, pooling around her fingers and knees in the basin. The wind’s wrapping around her in slow currents, blowing the rain so it hits every inch of her. 

She’s covered in him.

Though she’s come she barely even pauses, fueled by the thought of his gaze on her, the idea that he wants to see her like this, would manipulate his domain to _touch her_. Does he have his hand on himself too, in whatever distant corner of the divine realms he’s observing from? Do the gods even do such things?

The rain’s up to her knuckles now, her palm submerged in him, water running down her body as it rocks with her motions.

Or maybe it’s running— _up_ her body.

Byleth can’t see anything—not least because of her own tits—but she can feel it, a stream running up her leg, more purposeful than the water sluicing down her. It travels along her inner thigh, winds between her lower lips, mingles with her slick as it runs cooly over her. It’s getting more substantial, the raindrops that fall on her skin rolling over to join it, until she can feel it raised off her skin when her fingers brush it, like a cord of water between her legs. 

That cord pushes at her clit. _Oh_.

She moves her hand, lets it drop to the basin to support her and leave her open to his touch. 

Though the sensation is foreign, the touch is familiar—following the patterns his fingers had on her clit, what she’d moaned to. Maybe it’s that familiarity, or maybe it’s the feeling of closeness his works have inspired in her these past weeks, but the sensation swiftly goes from alien to intimate, to _him._

Below her, new tendrils of water are rising from the basin, reaching up towards her tits. They explore her as if they’re alive, winding curiously over the surface of her skin, pairing up to push her nipples back and forth between them.

Byleth never even considered that he could do something like this. Control the rain itself and not just where it fell. Just when she thinks she can’t marvel any more deeply, he always takes her breath away.

Her reflection is a blur now, quivery and blurred by the rain drumming over her body. As the rain—as Dimitri—plays with her tits, the water level continues to rise, up past the bones of her wrist. 

Then abruptly, it drops.

Something wet and cool nudges at her hole, thicker than any of the other tendrils touching her. Between her legs she can just barely see it, a fat column of water rising out of the collected rain. Her breath catches in her chest, anticipation surging.

_Let me have you._

“ _Yes_.” Byleth shoves her hips back towards the touch, but the water simply pushes out of the way, aimless without him directing it. 

That cool arm of water works its way into her pussy, at once solid and pliant. It’s stretching her, holding her open, yet when she clenches down it morphs, shifts out of the way to fill the new shape inside her. What she gets from this is going to be exactly what he wishes to give her, and the thought is oddly thrilling.

She expects it to start thrusting, to fuck her like a cock, but instead it shifts on itself, twisting to explore the inside of her pussy, changing shape inside her as her lord pleases. It strokes over the walls of her cunt in a curious cycle, unconstrained by the rigidity of a solid form.

The smaller tendril is still circling her clit, caressing it, coaxing a slow build of heat in her stomach that has her moaning, her wet lips parting to let his rain run in.

Can he feel anything from this? Or does it just please him to watch? She’s not sure it even matters, he wanted her to take this and she’s taking it, will take whatever he wants to give her.

She doesn’t ask for more, but her body must be screaming it—she can feel the hunger on her own face, in the tilt of her hips. The watery tentacle in her cunt swells like a balloon, stretching her wider. It feels like the part inside her has expanded even more, heavy and full, pressing relentlessly into the sensitive area above her public bone that it was only teasing at before. She gasps, rain on her tongue, hips bucking involuntarily.

 _You’re stunning like this_ , Dimitri murmurs in her head, and the thought is startling, that she or any mortal could qualify as _stunning_ to one used to the wonders of the divine realms. To one that’s such a wonder himself. 

If Byleth closes her eyes she can almost picture him here, standing over her and watching as his rain coats her skin and plays with her body. The thin tendrils that were playing with her nipples have turned into thick vines wrapped around her tits, squeezing and tugging as the fat rope of water in her cunt endlessly contorts.

It’s like a tide pulling her under, the rain around her and inside her and the knowledge that every movement is being orchestrated by her lord. The cord of water circling her clit is getting faster, and she wants to chase her peak but she _can’t_ , has to wait and take the pace she’s given, trust that he’ll give her what she needs.

He does.

Orgasm washes over her, slow and shuddery. Her eyes flutter open and she swears she _sees_ him, a flash in the mirror below the distorted surface of the water, but it’s gone before her lips can even form his name. The word is almost lost in the rain, but every part of her knows he can hear it. 

“ _Dimitri_.”

 _Byleth._ His voice is warm with affection or lust or _something_ that heats her stomach. But she can’t help her greed, the yearning inside her that wants to be filled, marked, _his_.

Her impudent hips press back against the slowing tendrils of rain, the motion ineffectual as it’s been every other time—but it prompts a hum of interest from Dimitri.

 _For a mortal, your stamina is remarkable._ The shaft of water inside her gives a nudge that’s almost teasing. _You wish to continue?_

“Yes,” she says, far too desperately. “If it pleases you.”

 _Few things would please me more_. _How much do you think you can take?_

The thought of taking more than this is a shock of heat, awakens a hunger that thought itself sated. “As much as you wish to give me,” she says with certitude. What greater use could she have for her body? 

Somewhere above her, there’s a rumble of thunder.

The water around her wrists and ankles starts swirling, and suddenly she’s being _moved_ , invisible vortexes of wind lifting her out of the water and holding her suspended above it. They hold her wrists in the air above her head, and pull her legs apart, spreading them wide to completely expose her cunt. 

_There_ , his voice echoes. _That’s a better view._

Even as he speaks, the tentacle in her cunt starts churning inside her, shoving her walls aside as it flows in on itself. For split-seconds she’s left feeling almost empty as it recedes, only for it to surge in and fill her to the brim.

Her lips are hanging open, tongue on the verge of lolling out. A drop of rain grazes the tip and she chases it, licking the rest off her lower lip. 

Dimitri makes a noise, contemplative. _If you want me in your mouth, there’s no need to scavenge for scraps._

A thick tendril of water rises from the basin below her, traces over her lower lip like a caress. Byleth opens her mouth eagerly and it pushes past her lips, pressing cool and wet against her tongue. The rain that falls on this mountain is unusually clear and fresh, but the taste is a level even beyond that, like she’s drinking straight from the divine springs themselves. 

Dimitri—Dimitri’s rain—is still kneading her tits, the vines wrapped around them relaxing and constricting to the pace of the tentacle writhing in her cunt. She’s helpless and suspended for his earthly hands to play with, even more bound than when she was spread across the altar, and she thinks she could get lost in that feeling, that it could burn her alive.

Something nudges at the entrance to her ass. 

Her eager moan is muffled by the water in her mouth, her body somehow still desperate to feel him even more. She needs him in every pore, every corner of her soul, until when she passes she can’t go anywhere but to his side.

The new tendril starts to press into her, slowly working her ass open as its brethren keep shifting inside her, squeezing at her tits. It’s gentle as it works its way past the tight muscle of her hole, but the moment her body relaxes to admit it, it expands—until it feels like his cock did inside her, wide and heavy. 

While the tentacle in her cunt is contorting, flowing in on itself to push at her walls in a maddening cycle, this one _thrusts_. It pulls back and drives into her, gliding over the tender skin at the rim as it slides home. She can almost imagine he’s there behind her, using her ass as he pleasures her cunt, and the thought’s more stimulating than any physical act could be. 

She comes on the third thrust. Dimitri’s intake of breath echoes in her head, startled and aroused.

_You came from that?_

“Feels like you,” she slurs around the watery shaft in her mouth, sex drunk and messy. A mix of drool and rain leaks down to the sacred vessel below her, and she doesn’t know if it feels like a consecration or a defilement.

 _That was the intent. I didn’t realize you’d be quite so enthused by it._ His voice is breathy and heated, like breezes and summer days, and like he’s touching himself.

She wishes she could watch. But all she can see is the forest around her shaking with wind, the turbulent water in the basin below her, the rope of rain rising up to her mouth.

It’s easy to imagine he’s being rough with himself, his hand flying up his shaft at the same pace he’s fucking her with, his hair tousled by the same wind that surrounds her. To imagine he’s yearning to be buried in her body as he pumps into his hand.

Maybe she should feel embarrassed by her arrogance, but the tempest inside her only grows more intense at her brazen fantasy.

And he rises to meet it.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees the water in the basin drop. The tentacles start to swell, stretching her wider, enveloping her tits as they wind around them. Even as they grow they get rougher, gone from coaxing forth pleasure to wringing it out of her body.

Byleth cries out around the shaft on her tongue as the tendril circling her clit turns into a vortex, sucking ravenously at the nub of flesh. The thicker ropes are surging into her, pressing at the walls of her cunt, plunging into her ass, tugging at her tits. 

The din of sensation is overwhelming, has her shuddering and screaming into the fullness on her tongue, and then it _keeps going_. Eyes rolled back in her head with delirious pleasure, her body draws tight and _pulses,_ wave after wave of near-excruciating euphoria sweeping through her. Through it all he’s cradling her, surrounding her, filling her.

_You are—_

He doesn’t finish, or maybe she loses the words in the cacophony in her head. The vortex on her clit is too much now, but she can scarcely whimper before it softens, gives her an almost affectionate parting nudge before winding its way back down her leg. 

Above her, the rain begins to slow. 

The watery tentacles that have been fucking her are stilling, shrinking. He withdraws the one in her mouth oddly tenderly, strokes her temple with it, while the ones inside her and on her tits simply dwindle to nothing. Carefully, he deposits her—not back in the basin but on the grass. The whirls of wind holding her limbs dissipate once her footing is steady. 

Absently, she notices the patch of grass where she’d left her robe is completely dry.

_Did you enjoy that?_

The rain is almost entirely gone, and in its place a veil of mist hangs heavy over the basin. A warm breeze washes over her wet skin.

“Yes,” she pants, an odd pang in her chest at the thought that the Lord of Weather—that Dimitri—is _drying_ her. Somehow it makes her feel even more treasured than she did cradled by his domain. “Very much.”

In the mist above the basin, a flicker solidifies into a form, and she _sees_ him—reclined on one elbow with his robe loose and open, translucent and hazy and breathtaking, his cock hanging heavy and spent against his thigh.

He smiles at her. _I’m glad._ His voice is still in her mind, not her ears. 

She aches to reach out and touch him, but she knows her fingers will just pass through, that she hasn’t been invited, that his image might vanish or worse if she tries. “I hope that it pleased you as well.”

_Everything you do brings me joy, Byleth._

Her breath catches in her throat. She doesn’t know what she wants to say, almost wants to say that she loves him, but yes, of course she does. Everyone loves him, or should, and yet it feels like _more_.

“I’m glad,” she echoes. “Yet...I’m still not entirely convinced that what just happened was something for _you_ , and not something for _me_.”

His smile is peculiar, like there’s some private joke, something she’s not grasping. Already, his image is starting to fade, and she wants to hold onto it, sear it into her mind to linger over later. Who knows how many more chances she’ll have to see him?

_You underestimate your effect on me. But if you wish...I’ll attempt to think of another request._

Excitement rushes through her, even as the mist disperses and his projection winks out. She can still feel his presence, a comfort in her mind as she dresses and collects the supplies she came with. It’s...difficult to keep her egotistical thoughts at bay when he keeps saying things like that.

Maybe he _is_ hers, at least a little. At least until next year.

There’s too much water in the basin to polish it further, but she can scrub the outside to keep it free of lichen. 

“I won’t even need to go refill my bucket like this,” she remarks to the open air. “Thank you for the bounty.”

He laughs softly. _Thanking me for the byproducts of my own indulgence?_

“Yes.” What does it matter why he blesses them, so long as he does?

_I suppose we had this conversation last time. You compared it to Dedue’s stance on bees._

“And I’m still right.” _What is she saying? He’s a god!_

_I’d like to believe that._

“If you won’t let me thank you for the rain, at least let me thank you for the pleasure.”

_Very well. But not as your lord. As someone who wanted to give it to you._

“Then thank you for the orgasms...Dimitri.” His name falls off her lips like a dirty secret—addressing him in this manner is still an illicit thrill, an honor that feels undeserved.

 _You are welcome to them. Always._ His tone is rich and hot in the back of her skull, sends a little shiver through her for all she’s just been sated.

“I’ll do my best to continue to... _be_ , for you,” she murmurs, huskier than intended. Hopes it’s not too impudent.

 _I have faith you’ll do masterfully_. 

Is he...teasing her? Byleth swallows her chuckle, unsure whether to be amused or flattered. 

Too quickly, she finishes scrubbing the basin, and has to gather her supplies for the trek down. That’s probably the end of their time together. He talks to her in breathless moments, in holy places, in the stillness. Her hike back to the temple is none of these.

 _What will you do tomorrow?_ Dimitri asks as she nears the edge of the clearing. Almost as if he doesn’t want their time together to end either...but no, that’s presumptuous of her.

“I’m heading up to the Altar of Thunder. To oil the chains.” Byleth has been trying to think of it like her other tasks, but now the weight of it strikes her. She’ll be going back to where they fucked. Oiling the restraints that held her. Making sure they’ll be ready for someone else next year. 

She’s not sure whether she’s more worried she’ll be overcome with desire, or jealousy. 

_I see. If you feel the urge to indulge in memories...please feel free to give into it._

The knot of pride-presumption-jealousy Byleth is sure will be her downfall swells a little larger in her chest.

“With your leave...” Byleth swallows heavily, pictures climbing up on the rock again—running her hands over herself, knowing Dimitri might be watching her recall their night together. “I may have trouble dragging myself away. I’ll have to take care of the chains first or it might never get done.”

 _Don’t worry yourself overmuch about the chains rusting_. Dimitri’s voice is low and full of promise. _You can come without them next year._

**Author's Note:**

> (Byleth and Dimitri, simultaneously: Oh no I’m coming on too strong)
> 
> And for the New Lore...  
> The Oathmaker: Sylvain, god of promises (including the breaking thereof), contracts, treaties, betrayals. Rules marriage but only as a legal entity.  
> The Allseer: I admit this one isn't 100% set in stone but it's probably Yuri
> 
> I've tried to keep the lore in this series as purely side flavor, but if you want more, I'm happy to answer questions!


End file.
